My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding (22 page)

"She said yes!" their father yelled back at Mike. "Now leave and go have sex with your wife!"

Jemma's mother elbowed him in the gut. "You don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you?"

He waggled his eyebrows at his wife. "I'll show you romantic." He scooped her into his arms and danced her off into a dark corner.

The rest of the crowd dissipated, leaving Tony and Jemma alone on the dance floor. He reached down and grasped her left hand with his and slipped the ring onto her finger.

"It's beautiful," she blubbered.

"Not nearly as beautiful as you."

Waggling a brow, she purred, "You can stop. You're already insured a good time tonight."

"So, you're saying that I have to buy you a diamond ring every time I want to have my way with you?"

"I most certainly am not!" Jemma pushed him away again. Overdramatizing her shock, she clutched at her neckline.

"All right then, I'm glad I won't have to go broke."

Cuddling back into his arms, Jemma set the record straight. "I didn't say that either, sweetheart. There's always a new car, a fabulous vacation, shopping trips, a second home in the Virgin Islands." She leaned back, her eyes widening. "We don't even have our first home yet. And there's always…"

Tony stopped his babbling wife-to-be with a toe-curling kiss.

Jemma leaned back far enough to stare into the face of her future husband. It all became crystal clear to her, how bumpy the road of life can be. She'd thought her life had been over when Dalton had cheated on her, then again when he'd betrayed her and turned the man she truly loved against her. Life was fragile, fickle, and chaotic at best, but there was one thing she was now sure of. When true love is staring you in the face, it eventually clicks into place.

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Sue was born and raised in the small town of Grinnell, Iowa. At the age of 21, she moved her family—parents and all—to the beautiful Ozarks region of Missouri where they have lived since. She is blessed with an adoring husband, two wonderful kids, the best sister in the world, and amazing parents. Writing has always been a passion in her life, to which family and friends can attest. From her first attempt at a spin-off of Dick and Jane, to her latest novel, her heart and soul has been poured into each word. Her most sincere wish is that you will find as much enjoyment in reading her stories as she did in their creation.

To learn more about T. Sue VerSteeg, visit her online at:
http://tsueversteeg.com

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Tahoe Tessie Mysteries
:

Luck Be A Lady

Hey Big Spender (coming soon!)

Other works:

My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding

Twisted Fate

Secrets of the Sapphires

Another Time, Another Place

* * * * *

of the first
Tahoe Tessie Mystery

by Gemma Halliday & T. Sue VerSteeg:

LUCK BE A LADY

CHAPTER ONE

When I was ten, my dad taught me how to play blackjack. I'd proudly shown him my fourth grade report card bearing the A I'd earned in math, and he'd said, "Nice work, Tessie. Now let's put those skills to good use." He'd taken me upstairs to the VIP blackjack tables in the back of his casino, set me up with one of his dealers in a crisp, white shirt, and taught me the art of counting to twenty-one. I heard him bragging later to his director of operations what a quick study I was. In two hours, I'd cleaned him out of $600 in chips.  

That was almost twenty years ago, but it was still one of my most vivid memories of him. Though, to be honest, I didn't have a whole lot of memories of my father to choose from. Mom and he split when I was just two, and she'd promptly moved me south to Berkeley and away from the high-rolling life my father had carved out for himself here. I'd grown up only seeing him every other Christmas and during summer breaks. Our relationship wasn't what you'd call close, but it wasn't strained either. I guess I'd always looked at Richard King more like one would a fun uncle than a father figure.

Which is why I was surprised at how hard it was to keep tears from running down my face as they lowered his casket into the ground. I sniffed, my nose starting to run as much from the cold as the grief, as I tried to look anywhere but at the polished mahogany surface in front of me.

Across the grass, still spotted with melting snow, stood my father's widow, Britton. Britton was blonde, thanks to her stylist, busty, thanks to her plastic surgeon, and at least twenty years my dad's junior. She was dressed in all black, a skin-tight Donna Karen dress underneath a faux fur that engulfed her petite frame like a giant gorilla suit. While I enjoyed my designer shoes as much as the next girl, Britton took the notion of fashion to a whole new level. One that was bedazzled, bling-ed, and bleached within an inch of its life.

Beside Britton stood Alfonso Malone, or Alfie, my father's Director of Operations and head of security. Tall, grim, and not someone I'd want to meet in a dark alley. A scar ran across his cheek, his nose lay at a crooked angle, and his voice held a deep gravel that spoke of a hard life before donning the expensive suits he wore to be my dad's right-hand man. He had a comforting arm around Britton, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the casket, almost as if he was examining it for proof my dad was really in there.

Surrounding them was a slew of people dressed in black who I didn't know. Not surprising, considering it had been some time since I'd seen my father. A year? Two? I couldn't remember now. To be honest, the allure of the blackjack tables had long ago faded for me. While I'd inherited my father's blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair—leaning just a little more to the strawberry than blonde—he'd failed to pass on his love of high-stakes games. Especially ones that favored the house.           

I shifted, my feet going numb from the cold in my black pumps as the priest said his final words over the casket. Mourners began to disperse, nodding sympathetically in my direction, patting Britton on the shoulder, awkwardly shuffling back to their cars in their overcoats and boots, trying not to slip on the icy mud.

In the winter, Tahoe was a magical wonderland, the pristine snow on the evergreens and jagged mountains brilliant enough to take your breath away. In the spring, the snow melted to reveal enough mud puddles to make a kindergartener squeal with delight. This was March, and the town was just starting to lose its magical sheen.

"Hey, Tessie," I heard a deep voice say behind me.

Even before I spun around to face him, I knew who it belonged to. Rafe Lorenzo. Pro snowboarder, sponsored by my father's casino, minor local celebrity, and my first crush.

"Rafe," I said, turning away from the casket to face him.

"I'm so sorry, Tess," he said, emotion etched on his face.

I nodded. "Thank you," I responded, trying to adjust my eyes to the adult version of the first boy I'd ever doodled my name in hearts with.

When I was a teenager, Rafe had been in his early twenties, just coming into his own on the mountain, and charming enough that my father had threatened to take out his knees if he ever so much as held my hand. Not that the threat had kept me from fantasizing about just that. The same daredevil charm and charisma that had made him such a lucrative ambassador for my father's resort also made for a dangerous temptation to a girl whose adolescent hormones were running amuck.

While Rafe still wore his dark hair a little too long, letting it curl at the ends around his neck, his face was leaner and more angular now than it had been. A few faint laugh lines tickled the corners of his eyes, but his skin was the same warm, Mediterranean tan I'd remembered. And his eyes, staring at me now with genuine concern, were the same brilliant green and rimmed in long, black lashes that I'd gotten lost in as a teenage romantic.    

  I strongly reminded myself what good practice I'd had at keeping my hormones in check since then.

"You look great, Tess," Rafe observed. "You haven't changed a bit."

My cheeks heated despite the biting wind. "Thanks," I mumbled. "You too."

"Bullshit. I totally look ten years older," he replied, though the corners of his mouth turned up, deepening those laugh lines at his eyes.

I felt a small grin pulling my lips in response. It felt good. I realized it might have been the first time in days that I'd smiled. "Has it really been ten years?"

"At least. Last time I saw you, you were heading off to art school, planning to make your mark as the next great American painter."

"That was a long time ago," I agreed, feeling the smile drop from my face. "I curate now. A small gallery in San Francisco. Mission Arts."

"Don't tell me you've given up painting?"

I shrugged. "Turns out being a starving artist isn't actually as glamorous as I thought."

He chuckled, the sound warm, rumbling, and totally incongruent with our grim surroundings. "Well, I'll have to check out your gallery next time I'm in The City."

The fact that we both knew it was a hollow threat pulled an awkward pause over the conversation. I shifted in my pumps again. Rafe ran a hand through his thick hair.

Finally Rafe broke the tension by asking, "So how are you doing? You okay?"

I nodded, stealing a glance at the casket again. "I will be," I replied by rote. I'd fielded this same question at least a dozen times since getting the news via Britton's text message that my father had suddenly passed away. The past two days had been a blur of last-minute travel arrangements and subdued murmurs of sympathy from strangers. Or, in Rafe's case, resurrections from my past.    

Rafe shook his head, his hair skimming the collar of his wool coat turned up against the cold. "Heart attack," he said, eyes cutting to the closed casket, too. "Who would have thought any part of Richard King was weak, let alone his heart?"

I nodded in agreement. Shot execution style, I might have expected in his line of work. Possibly dumped in the frigid waters of Lake Tahoe. But my father succumbing to something as mundane as a heart attack? I could almost hear him rolling over in his freshly-dug grave at the thought.

"You coming back to the casino?" Rafe asked. "Britton's hosting a wake of sorts in the penthouse."

"Oh, I, uh, I'm not sure..." I trailed off. I watched Britton get into a town car, the other guests filing into their vehicles. Honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was replay the same awkward sentiments of sympathy with a roomful of people who all knew my father better than I did. What I wanted to do was go back to my rental car, crank up the heater, and listen to old Sinatra songs—my dad's favorite—as I made the drive over the hill and home to San Francisco.

He must have sensed my hesitation, as Rafe put a hand on my arm. "He loved you, Tessie."

This admission took me by surprise. "I, um, I loved him, too," I said, the words sticking in my throat, causing those tears to back up again.

"Come back to the casino, Tessie." He paused. "At least to say good-bye."

Put like that, how could I refuse?

*  *  *

The Royal Palace Casino and Resort was located on the border of South Lake Tahoe, California and Stateline, Nevada. And when I say "on the border," I mean the state line ran the entire length of the parking lot. One inch over the Nevada border, Dad had erected the first line of slot machines on casino property.

South Lake Tahoe was primarily a tourist town, playing host to Silicon Valley execs and wealthy entrepreneurs on their three-day weekends. The locals were die-hard skiers and snowboarders whose jobs largely centered around the tourists, a small trade-off for living in the winter sports paradise. The landscape was dotted with million-dollar ski chalets mingling with weather-worn cottages and old motels converted into apartments. Ski bums and nature lovers who worshiped the mountains mixed with weekenders who worshiped the casinos, spas, and souvenir boutiques lining Lake Tahoe Boulevard.

And in the center of it all sat the lake itself, almost two-hundred square miles of crystal blue waters. My father named me after the legendary "Tahoe Tessie" monster that was supposedly the local version of its more famous Loch Ness cousin. Not that I really believed in that kind of folklore. And, trust me, my father hadn't been the fanciful type either. But he knew a publicity opportunity when he saw it. Any chance to draw more tourists to the Royal Palace's slots, that man was all over it. Even when it came to naming his only child.

Next door to the Royal Palace sat Harrah's casino, and just across the street were their two competitors, Harvey's and the Deep Blue. And just over the border on the California side sat a handful of boutiques, restaurants, and ski equipment rental shops, soaking in the casinos' tourist overflow. 

I pulled up to the front of the Royal Palace. It was eighteen stories of neon-rimmed glass and steel. The main gambling floors sat in front, windowless chambers with flashing signs advertising showgirls, magicians, and the latest aging rock band booked into the amphitheater behind the parking structure. Flanking the main building were the turret style towers, holding guest rooms. They jutted into the bright blue sky, breaking up the scenery of pine trees and snow dusted peaks with giant billboards at their apex, letting everyone know that the buffet was only $4.99 on Wednesdays.

While there was no other word but "gaudy" to describe the building, it had an almost predictably commercial charm about it that was oddly comforting.   

I left my car with a valet sporting dark hair and lots of freckles and entered the lobby. Here the gaudy goodness was even more prevalent, my father having delighted in being the "King" of his "Royal" palace. He'd embedded touches of his theme everywhere, from the "Princess Day Spa" on the second floor, to the "King's Court All You Can Eat Buffet" located in the west wing of the building. In the lobby, the floors were polished marble leading to the check-in desk, lined in gold and dotted with fake family crests. The gaming floor dinged with a thousand slot machines all going at once, and the air held a thick haze of cigarette smoke, indoor smoking being legal on this side of the border. It was a scent I should have hated, but it instantly brought me back to my childhood, dragging with it bittersweet memories that threatened those tears again.